


The Great Detective's Stunning Assistant Is On The Case!

by TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard



Category: TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Detectives, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Historical, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Nonbinary Character, Slow Burn, Vaguely Victorian Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28111563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard/pseuds/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard
Summary: Really, Beomgyu's just the secretary. He's not cut out for this kind of work.He shouldn't be out on his own solving cases. Especially not a murder.He definitely shouldn't be out getting engaged to the son of a marquis. Even if it's for pretend.Especially if it's for pretend.
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Choi Soobin
Comments: 25
Kudos: 75





	1. Let's Meet The Client But Say We Didn't

Choi Beomgyu has a cousin.

A rather famous cousin who you probably, certainly, have heard of before.

He’s tall and rather handsome. He dresses nicely. He’s quite smart. He has--

“Don’t be fooled, dear reader,” Beomgyu cuts in, tilting his head back to look straight at you. Yes. You. “My cousin is quite insufferable. And full of himself. An absolute nightmare to be around for any extended period of time. Just you wait and see.” He turns his gaze back to the other side of the room so that he won’t get caught speaking to you.

“Beomgyu,” his cousin speaks from behind his desk, hands steepled in front of his face.

“Yes, Taehyung?” Beomgyu asks, voice layered in politeness that he does not truly feel.

“Show this fine, young gentleman the door, would you?” Kim Taehyung waves a hand towards the armchair across from his desk, as if there is anyone else in his office who he could possibly be referring to.

“Certainly.” Beomgyu looks from one man to the other. There’s nothing fine or young about him. “Please, sir. Right this way,” Beomgyu says from between clenched teeth. He tries his absolute best to keep his smile firmly in place as he waits for the aging man to gather his things, stand and follow Beomgyu out of the office and down the narrow hallway just beyond the door.

As with most buildings along this street in the commercial district, it’s not too odd for the place of business to be downstairs while the personal quarters are upstairs. Such an arrangement is fine and convenient most days, particularly when it rains, but it makes Beomgyu stir crazy most others. It hurts to show someone the way outside when he cannot go outside himself. Not yet, anyway. Not for a few more hours. The working day is not quite over.

“Please stress to him the importance of this manner,” the gentleman whispers to Beomgyu, as if not wanting to be overheard.

Beomgyu does not lower his voice at all when he says, “Oh, I will stress him out, alright.”

You see, Kim Taehyung is a private detective. Just don’t call him such a crass, common thing to his face because he will insist that he is a  _ criminologist _ . But he goes about town solving strange and peculiar cases, his one good friend is a police inspector and the papers call him Great Detective Kim. So, to Beomgyu, he is a private detective.

“Thank you for your time,” the gentleman states. His voice is low and rattles in his chest like he’s a tad shy of sounding hoarse and sick. Or from breaking into tears.

Beomgyu holds open the door for him and steps back. He’s never been too much of a fan of sickness  _ or _ tears. Both are quite gross and contagious and worth avoiding, he thinks. He holds a hand out towards the sunlight pouring in from outdoors. “We will inform you by telegram if we will accept your case or not,” he tells the man. “You should hear from us before the weekend, sir.” Then he glances around the man’s wide frame at you, dear reader. “We better take his blasted case. Taehyung’s been out of work for a week! The picky, cheeky bastard. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been given an allowance? Do you know how long it has been since I’ve gone shopping?” Then he stretches his smile back across his face and nods at the man. “Safe travels, sir.” The man nods back at him as he puts on his hat and exits the building, his finely-tailored three-piece suit possibly too layered and warm in late summer sunshine like this. 

Beomgyu hardly waits for the man to reach the bottom of the rowhouse’s stairs before he slams the front door shut and walks briskly back up the hall, dress shoes clicking on the hardwood flooring.

“Some detective,” he growls out loud, hands clenched into fists at his side. When Beomgyu had been told by his strict mother that he would be leaving the country estate and spending the summer with his favorite cousin in the big city to  _ build character _ , he was excited. Which was the exact opposite reaction one must have to a ‘punishment.’ Kim Taehyung was relatively famous. Always in the papers. Beomgyu had spent the entire train ride north daydreaming about helping Taehyung solve murders and catch criminals. “But blast it all,” Beomgyu tells you, his voice echoing off the wallpapered walls, “all I’ve done for the man over the past three months is brew his tea, dust his bookshelves, roll his shirts for lint and--” His tone goes high and squeaky and mocking even though Taehyung’s voice is smooth and deep. “-- _ show fine, young gentlemen the door _ . Bah!” He wasn’t all too sure his cousin was worthy of the title of Great Detective. How many stunning cases had they solved all summer? None. That’s how many.

As he approaches Taehyung’s office, he pauses in front of the floor-length mirror and examines himself. Brown curly hair. Chestnut-colored eyes and a sharp little nose. A constellation of dark freckles across his cheeks and nose and down his neck from many years spent outside beneath the country sun. Although maturity is slowly sharpening his chin and cheekbones, he still looks like a teen playing with costumes in his buttoned dress shirt, done up tie, waistcoat and tailored slacks.

Hmmm. Perhaps if he grew a bit of a mustache, he’d look more his age? 

With a resigned sigh, he steps past the mirror and enters the room at the end of the hall.

He barely takes a foot into Taehyung’s neatly arranged office before he half-shouts, “I beg you, let’s take the case.”

“Hmm?” Taehyung goes, eyebrows raised in confusion as if he has not just sat through a client consultation. One of many today, yes, but this one hadn’t been but thirty seconds ago. “Which case?”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes. “The case of the fine, young gentleman I just walked out the door.”

Taehyung slowly stands up from his leather office chair and unhurriedly circles his desk. He’s similarly dressed to Beomgyu, in a tie and waistcoat and slacks, but he’s chosen safer, more demure colors as opposed to Beomgyu’s in-fashion rosy tones and damask patterns. “Why must we take his case? Explain it to me.”

Beomgyu snaps, “Because we have not accepted a case all week!”

“Is that the only reason? It’s not even a very good one, cousin.” 

Bollocks. How can the man sound so calm? 

Taehyung strolls about his office casually, spine straight and shoulders back. The posture of a man from an esteemed family. A man of dignity and education. He runs a finger across the freshly-dusted spines of the reference books on one of his shelves then he examines his fingertip as if to gauge their cleanliness. Finding it acceptable, he turns away from the shelf then stops in front of the small rolling cart sitting within reach of the armchair. He pours himself a cup of tea, so freshly brewed at Beomgyu’s hand that it still wafts steam into the air in front of his face as he lifts it. Sips from it. Swallows. “Nothing about that man’s case intrigues me.” Another sip. Another swallow. “None of the cases presented to us this week have intrigued me.” And he sighs long and slow as if he’s just recounted some great tragedy.

Beomgyu fixes you with a look. He widens his eyes. A stare that practically screams ‘Have I not told you about this? Do you see what it is that I mean?’ Then, swiftly, he returns his gaze to his cousin’s sharp profile. “And I’m sure our landlady won’t be intrigued by such an excuse if we do not make rent this month.” He flattens his back to the wall behind him. It’s just humid enough in the room for his neck to be mildly damp with sweat. “And I still have every intention of making groceries on Sunday. A week’s worth, mind you.”

Taehyung turns to look at him. “I know I didn’t set the best of impressions those first few weeks… but I have more than enough money set aside for such expenses, cousin.” He tries to smile. It does not quite meet his eyes. “Regardless of what my aunt told you before she packed you up and sent you to me, by no means am I struggling here.” 

Beomgyu isn’t entirely sure he believes that. “My mum doesn’t even know you solve murders and other peculiar cases. She’s still of the impression that you work at the university.”

Taehyung usually lets Beomgyu change the subject. Right now, he doesn’t. “Why must we solve another case so soon after the last one?”

The last one was nearly two weeks ago now. “I grow tired of being holed up in this house,” Beomgyu whines. “I miss walking the streets in search of clues and information.”

“You miss strutting about in your brand new clothes.”

“Same difference,” huffs Beomgyu.

Taehyung looks away from him, and tries his best to fight off a smile. His eyes wander towards the open window behind his office chair. The linen curtains are pulled back and sway gently in the breeze. The city is alive with noise and color and movement on the other side of the window frame. Taehyung says, “And I’m sure that you will appreciate the challenge all the more if we wait for a more suitable case.”

“Do you expect one to just fall into our laps?”

“All of the best things come to us when we least expect them.”

Perhaps it is because Beomgyu only just finished looking in the mirror at himself, but he’s viscerally aware of their family resemblance now. It’s in the shape of the eyes. The slope of the jaw. The angular sharpness of the cheekbones. As if they are brothers as opposed to cousins. Taehyung’s hair is lighter, almost golden, and certainly longer and fuller and less combed, but it’s just as fiercely curly as Beomgyu’s own. A trait they’ve both received from their mothers. 

Beomgyu asks, “Good things come to those who wait? Is that what you mean?”

Taehyung takes a sip of his tea but says nothing else.

That means Beomgyu must further the argument. “Still,” he says, “that man is looking for his poor, missing wife. She’s up and disappeared on him! How is that not an intriguing case? Were you not listening?” 

Taehyung clearly doesn’t feel even a fragment of his urgency. He turns Beomgyu’s own question back on him. “Were  _ you _ not listening? She took money and clothes and jewelry with her. That woman either ran off with someone else and doesn’t want to be found, or--” He pauses to take another sip of his tea, completely and utterly bored. “Or she’s running away from  _ him _ and thus should  _ not _ be found.” He is already looking away, as if no further explanation is required.

Beomgyu whirls around to face you. He glares up at you, eyebrows furrowed, but it is not you who our feisty little fellow is so cross with. “God, I want to strangle him!” Then he spins about to glare at his cousin. “God, I want to strang--”

Out in the hall, the front door opens and then slams shut. Heavy footsteps come up the hall in a steady, percussive rhythm, almost like a soldier’s march.

Beomgyu rolls his eyes at the all-too familiar noise. He doesn’t bother to lower the volume on his disapproval when he grumbles, “For fuck’s sake. Here we go again.” He spares you the slightest pitying glance. “Brace yourself.”

A breath later, Detective Inspector Min Yoongi from the police force steps into the room like rolling storm clouds rushing in over the hills. The stench of clove cigarettes and too-much perfume trails in after him. “Taehyung,” he huffs, forgoing any sense of formality as he steps briskly across the office. “Did you not receive my message?” 

Taehyung turns away from the window and his face is made brilliant by sunshine. “What message?” A serendipitous gust of wind stirs up his hair.

Yoongi growls out, “I asked you to stop by the station hours ago. Did you really not hear of this?”

Taehyung glances away from Yoongi to cut his eyes in Beomgyu’s direction. But only for a second before he drops his gaze.

That just makes Beomgyu even more cross. He looks in your direction. “Did you see what that bastard just did? Did he just silently accuse me of not delivering his correspondence?” He narrows his eyes at Taehyung but continues to speak to you out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m no trained secretary but I’m also no idiot. I’ve answered the phone every time it rang today! All the messages that have come in for him I have dutifully written down on the memo pad sitting on his desk at this very moment.” He visibly resists the urge to stomp and point. He can see it from here! Beomgyu squeezes his eyes shut, counts to five to calm his anger. He opens his eyes and focuses his attention on the conversation in front of him once more.

“I called at around ten in the morning,” Yoongi insists. “Though perhaps it was closer to nine. I spoke with that brat of an assistant of yours and after a significant amount of back talk, he told me he would pass along my words with great haste.”

Taehyung goes, “Yes, I understand.”

Yoongi keeps on. “It’s a shame that Jungkook fellow crossed town to start investigating his own cases. He was a hard worker. Diligent. Polite yet stern. I never had issues with undelivered messages when he was your assistant. Never a word of disrespect. But that mouthy little cousin of yours--”

Taehyung interrupts him. “What business do you have with me, Detective Inspector?” He holds his cup of tea up to his lips but he does not drink.

Yoongi eyes the rolling cart off to the side and admires the porcelain teapot sitting atop it but he does not move to pour himself a cup. “Don’t you think there’s only one kind of business I’d request your presence for? And since you didn’t meet me at my office, I’ve come all the way here to bend--”

Taehyung hooks his eyes in Beomgyu’s direction again. Less subtly.

Yoongi trails off. He turns. Follows Taehyung’s stare back towards the door and nearly startles when he spots a scowling Beomgyu leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Yoongi masks his surprise by clearing his throat. “Why, I thought he was a curtain in those horrifically patterned trousers.”

“These are designer!” Beomgyu snaps.

Taehyung must recognize the murderous intent in Beomgyu’s gaze so he brightly speaks up before Beomgyu can attempt assault. “Can you go fetch the cookies, my sweet cousin? From the cabinet to the left of the sink.”

Beomgyu grits his teeth and leans off of the wall to get a better look at you, dear reader. He tells you, “Does he truly think I don’t know where we keep the blasted cookie tins? I am the one who keeps the kitchen stocked and clean while he sits on his ass half the day.” Then he straightens up his expression and stares directly into Taehyung’s expectant face. “Right away, cousin.”

“Take your time,” Taehyung instructs him. “Perhaps warm them in the oven?” He finally sips from the teacup pressed against his mouth.

“And be mindful. Don’t repeat last week’s infraction by handing me anything stale or smashed, would you?” Yoongi smiles at him.

“Shut the door on your way out,” Taehyung advises.

Beomgyu strolls out of the office before he leaves Yoongi’s head stale and smashed on the floor. He slams the door shut to make sure everyone knows he disapproves of being spoken to in such a manner. He’s never liked the man. Something’s always been mildly off about him. Yoongi wears all black clothing, even in the heat of summer, and his pale and washed-out skin and thin, dark hair always makes him appear ghoulish. Like he’s some nightmare beast that’s crawled out from beneath a child’s bed. He’s mean-tempered and snobby and is oddly fascinated by spilled blood for a man whose job is to prevent such terrible things yet Taehyung only ever smiles at him fondly. As if Yoongi has redeeming qualities somewhere beneath the vitriol.

“There’s something going on with him,” Beomgyu whispers to you. “You best keep an eye on him. He’s a copper but I still wouldn’t leave my valuables unattended around him.” 

At the other end of the hall, Beomgyu passes through the archway into the kitchen.

The kitchen is small for a house of this size but the windows are large and the pastel curtains are drawn back to let in ample amounts of the mid-afternoon sunlight. The floor tiles are clean and sparkle in the light. The live flowers in the vase on the dining table are fragrant and fresh. The air is heavy and warm and still faintly smells like the breakfast Jimin came by and cooked for them that morning. Beomgyu checks the cabinet to the left of the sink only to stare inside, confused. 

“You’re not going to believe this,” he tells you. He jerks his head towards the upper cabinet’s interior as if to show you where to look but there is nothing to see inside. “Where have all the cookie tins gone? There were at least two left the other day.” He checks the cabinet to the right of the sink instead but the shelves are lined with their assigned collection of glasses and mugs. As expected. Beomgyu checks the cabinet on the left again. Just to be sure. He even stands up on his tip toes but the place where the cookie tins should be is empty. Beomgyu frowns. He mutters more to himself than to you, “It hasn’t been  _ that  _ long since I’ve stopped by the bakery. Has it?” Perhaps he’s spent more days indoors than he’s realized. It can be difficult to track the time when stuck inside.

Beomgyu needs a change. He needs excitement. He needs something new and  _ intriguing _ to come crashing into his life.

Fortunately, when he flings open the next cabinet over, he does indeed spot the misplaced cookie tin, crammed rather inelegantly beneath a bottle of cooking oil but above a bag of flour. He’s just grabbed hold of it when the front door opens. God, they are quite busy today!

A strong, warm summer breeze blows through the foyer and carries in the scent of fresh cut grass and a hint of salt from off the sea.

Beomgyu steps out of the kitchen and into the hall and squints against the brightness of the sunlight. “May I help you, kind sir?”

The figure at the door is offensively tall. Not too much different from a tower. Built in such a way that he has to dip forward the slightest bit to avoid doing his head in as he steps over the threshold of the door. The sunlight coming in from behind casts him into a dramatic silhouette. “I need your help.”

Beomgyu tilts his head. “ _ My _ help?” No one ever comes here and asks for  _ his _ help.

“Yes,” the figure states. “I need help. It is an urgent matter. You are my only hope.”

Beomgyu pops open the cookie tin lid and peers inside. It should have been nearly full but, as he discovers, it is half-empty. Either Taehyung or Jimin are the culprits and what is most infuriating is that neither of them will admit to the crime if confronted. Beomgyu looks up at the man. “Your life must be in absolute  _ shambles _ if I, of all people, am your last hope.”

The man at the door tenses. “Please. You have to help me.” Then he unspools, but not due to any sort of relief. "You do take cases, right? This is the address of the Great Detective, right? Kim Taehyung?”

Beomgyu sighs. He should have known no one had come here for him. “Sir, you’ve mistaken me for my cousin. His office is right down the hall.” Beomgyu gestures.

At last, the figure remembers to close the door behind him. Without the garish brightness of the sunlight throwing odd shadows across his face, Beomgyu finally gets a good look at the man. No. Man is too strong of a word. He’s tall, yes, but he is clearly not much older than Beomgyu. He can’t be but twenty years. The lad has a good physiognomy, however, with round eyes and full, dimpled cheeks. A pleasant smile that creates fireworks in his eyes.

Beomgyu removes a cookie from the tin and pops it into his mouth. It’s sweet molasses with cinnamon sugar sprinkled atop it. When several seconds pass and the man doesn’t move, doesn’t stop staring, Beomgyu frowns. “What?”

“Who are you?”

“No one important.”

“Everyone is important.”

“I’m just the assistant to someone who is important.”

“Well… What is your name?”

“Beomgyu.” He swallows his mouthful of food.

“A handsome name.”

They fall into another silence and Beomgyu gets steadily more anxious the longer the man’s wide smile is aimed in his direction. Beomgyu gestures towards the hallway again. “That way. For my cousin. Remember?” He shoves another cookie in his mouth. “You were in a hurry?”

“Oh yes. Right.” The tall man states. He finally takes his eyes off of Beomgyu to stare down the hall. His expression clouds with brand new worry. 

Beomgyu takes a moment to examine the man’s outfit. He is dressed fashionably, Beomgyu notes. He does not wear the boxy, loose-fitting cuts of last season. Everything he has on is tailored, fitting his thick torso and long thighs tightly. He has forgone a waistcoat in favor of a pair of brightly-patterned suspenders. His tie and trousers are in the same rich blue-purple hue. He sports no hat but his dark hair is styled impeccably, up and away from his face. His watch isn’t expensive but it is new. Glittering silver. A semi-famous watchmaker’s name is engraved across the face.

“This way, you said? Past the stairs?” The man begins down the hallway, his long legs propelling him at quite the speed.

Belatedly, Beomgyu remembers something. He chews furiously so that he can swallow enough of the cookie in his mouth to speak. “But he is currently with a guest.” He closes the cookie tin and rushes after the man. “Would you like to sit in the parlor until he is free?”

“I’m afraid this matter cannot wait,” the man says over his shoulder. “The livelihood of my entire family is at stake.”

“And all manner of propriety is at stake if you do not wait your turn,” Beomgyu hisses at him. “Please, Mr…” He trails off, leaving room for a name.

“Soobin. Call me Soobin,” the young man states. He does not slow his pace.

“Alright, Soobin. The parlor is this way. We have several nice chairs and the windows are open to catch the breeze.”

Soobin walks right past Beomgyu, right past the archway for the parlor.

Beomgyu looks over at you and sighs, beyond irritated, before he shouts at Soobin’s back, “I will inform Mr. Kim that you are waiting for him.”

Soobin shouts, “This cannot wait. A family’s fortune is at stake!” 

Beomgyu looks at you a second time. “I do not get paid nearly enough for this.”

Beomgyu rushes after him. He’s just close enough to reach out and grab hold of the lad’s wrist. He does so. Or attempts to. But misses by a hair’s width because of how swiftly Soobin walks, arms swinging at his sides. Beomgyu says, “My cousin doesn’t take too kindly to being interrupted.”

“I will ask for forgiveness at a later time,” Soobin states. He grabs hold of the doorknob to Taehyung’s office and pushes it open. No knock. No announcement of his presence. The two lads step into the room just in time to watch Yoongi and Taehyung spring away from each other like mischievous children caught red-handed.

“What is the meaning of this,” Yoongi demands, eyebrows furrowed and face red. His shirt is abnormally wrinkled and untucked from his breeches. His hand hovers unnecessarily close to the pistol holstered at his hip.

“I attempted to stop him,” Beomgyu states. “At least once.”

“You should have tried a bit harder,” Yoongi gripes. He stands back up to his full height and lowers his hand away from his firearm. “Hell, you should not have tried. You ought have  _ succeeded _ .”

“Do I look like some kind of enforcer to you,” Beomgyu questions.

Yoongi fires back, “You should do  _ something _ to earn your keep around here.”

Beomgyu decides to save the lives of everyone in the room by keeping his mouth shut.

Soobin dips his head in greeting and stretches out his right hand for a shake. “Apologies for the intrusion but I must make my case heard. Great Detective, I’ve heard so many good things about your skills. I’ve read everything in the papers about you. I even collect the clippings in a box! I’m sure you are busy but if you would be so kind as to take on my case, I will pay you with everything I have.”

Silence filters into the room. Heavy. Thick. Like summertime humidity.

“I beg you,” Soobin continues. He sounds shaky. Emotional. He holds his hand up a little bit higher, waiting for a shake. “Please help me save my family from ruin.”

The silence stretches on awkwardly, filled only by the stray noise that glides in through the window. A train whistle in the far distance echoes over the roofs of the neighboring buildings.

Beomgyu reaches out, grabs hold of the tall man’s waist and steers Soobin forward and around so that he is holding his hand out to Taehyung instead of Yoongi. 

A brief moment of hesitation later and Taehyung leans forward, grips Soobin’s hand and shakes it in a firm greeting. “Call me Taehyung. How may I help you, Mr…?”

“Soobin. My name is Choi Soobin. And my family is in grave danger.”

Yoongi looks back and forth between Soobin and Taehyung several times before he glares at Taehyung. “Are you really going to do this? Right now?” Yoongi’s voice gets murky and low. Like oil. “After I came all this way?”

“It will only take a moment,” Taehyung tells him without looking over at him. There’s a peculiar red, splotchy mark on the side of his neck that wasn’t there five minutes ago. “I will finish with him and then we can pick up our  _ conversation _ where we left off.” Taehyung attempts to pull his hand back, but Soobin still grips it firmly, fervently. “I see. Well. Yes. Hello.” Taehyung tries with a bit more force and succeeds in prying loose his fingers from Soobin’s large hand. “Care to explain the details of your situation, my good man?” He motions towards the armchair. “Sit. Please.”

Soobin wanders over to the armchair and not so much eases down into it as he does flop down upon it. The leather squeaks. Soobin sighs as if a great burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

Yoongi growls out, “Am I really to stand here and watch?”

“Please, Detective Inspector Min. Not in front of guests.”

“Am I not a guest, Taehyung?” Yoongi fixes his eyes on Beomgyu as if only now remembering he is standing in the room. “And where are those oven-warmed cookies?”

Beomgyu ignores his urge to chuck the cookie tin at Yoongi’s head. Instead, he steps forward and shoves the tin against Yoongi’s chest. He whispers to the man, “If they’re not warm enough for you, sit the tin on the windowsill and let the sun heat them.” He steps back, grinning.

Yoongi flusters, hardly able to get a hand beneath the cookie tin before it falls to the floor. He sucks in a breath, ready to yell. Ready to argue. 

“Yoongi,” Taehyung says. He always seems to know when to redirect someone else’s anger. “This won’t take long. I swear it.” He sits down in his leather office chair and it creaks beneath his weight. “Sit in the parlor for a minute.”

And if such a command had come from anyone else, Yoongi surely would have protested. But since it comes from Taehyung, he smooths the rough edges off of his voice. “I still have some work to attend to at the station. How about--” And it physically pains him to say this. Beomgyu can see it on his face. “How about I just call on you later?” And he does not wait for a response before he turns on his heel and exits the office.

Beomgyu is right and ready to leave the office himself but just as he’s about to head towards the kitchen or somewhere less stuffy, Taehyung says, “Pour this man a cup of tea, will you, cousin?”

Beomgyu snorts back a smart-mouthed reply as he approaches the rolling cart. He grabs a clean cup from the service, tips over the pot and pours the cup full of lukewarm tea. He holds it out to Soobin who graciously accepts the beverage. His hands are so large that the porcelain is dwarfed beneath his fingers as he lifts it to his mouth and noisily slurps.

Taehyung cuts to the chase. “What is it that I can help you with, Soobin?”

Soobin almost looks ashamed now that he’s been asked so directly. “I am convinced that my parents have wrongfully employed a skilled group of art thieves as our housekeepers.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows shoot up. An almost uncharacteristic amount of surprise. “Now that is an interesting accusation.” He returns his attention to his own cup of tea, lifting it to his mouth, but it must be empty based on how he frowns and sets the cup down on his desk. Beomgyu purposefully does not move to refill it. “What makes you so sure,” Taehyung questions. Then he says his favorite, famous line, “Explain it to me.”

Soobin says, “The vase on the table in the foyer was replaced by an identical counterfeit.”

Taehyung nods and hums along. “And?”

“And one of the paintings in the downstairs hallway was also replaced by a nearly-exact replica.”

Taehyung waits.

Soobin turns and looks up at Beomgyu, as if he needs to explain all of this to him instead. “And a bust at the end of the hall was similarly treated. There one day, but gone the next… Well, not gone but  _ changed _ . You see, these were artist originals. Worth hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. A few of them may even be worth more.” His eyes go a little glassy as tears threaten to invade the corners of his eyes.

Mildly disgusted, Beomgyu puts his palm on Soobin’s cheek and forces his head around so that Soobin once again faces Taehyung on the far side of his desk.

Soobin continues his explanation. Absently, he presses his fingers to the place on his jaw where Beomgyu’s palm had been. “If things keep going the way they are going, my family’s collection will be nothing more than a group of fakes and forgeries. Our entire fortune will be stolen out from under us and no one but me even seems to notice!”

Taehyung steeples his hands in front of his face. His eyes narrow as he considers all of this. “And how  _ do _ you notice, Soobin?”

Soobin nervously slurps up more of his tea. “I… I see the differences with my own two eyes, sir. I have a knack for detail. It just so happens that I am a bit of an artist. I can pick up on the subtleties of brush strokes and the differences between shapes. Whoever is making these forgeries is good. Talented, even. I give them that. But I still notice the shortcomings.”

Taehyung keeps his face neutral. Blank. Unbiased.

Meanwhile, Beomgyu glances up at you and snorts, “Is the lad out of his mind? Has he lost his bloomin’ marbles?” He rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Who the hell does he think he is? Claude Monet? Vincent van Gogh?”

Taehyung says, curtly, “And how can you be so sure it is your family’s housekeepers who are the culprits?”

Soobin glances up at Beomgyu, as if he were the one who asked the question. “Who else would have free access to the halls of the house? Who else would be able to walk about and examine our artwork long enough to replicate it and replace it? We entertain plenty of guests but not so often that one of them would be able to get away with such a thing without garnering suspicion.”

Beomgyu takes his eyes off of Soobin to look at you and hisses, “Is he trying to pick a fight with me? Why does he keep  _ staring _ ?” Beomgyu reaches out a hand, places it on Soobin’s cheek again. He’s about to shove Soobin’s head back around to make the lad face Taehyung once more but Soobin clamps his own large hand tight around Beomgyu’s wrist and holds the younger man’s hand against his face as if he finds some scrap of comfort in the contact.

Soobin says, “Please. You have to help me. What if my favorite painting in the entire house is next? Something must be done about it.” He chokes back a sob. “I’ve spoken to anyone who will listen but no one believes me. Not even my own parents. If there’s someone who can find proof of this heinous crime, it’s you.”

Beomgyu hardly remembers to look up at you before he growls out, “Is he delusional? What in blazes does he think I can do about it?” Then Beomgyu realizes his fingertips are wet. He stares down at the young man. Soobin’s tears have escaped his eyes, traveled down his cheeks and made themselves at home between Beomgyu’s knuckles. Horrified, Beomgyu draws back. With only the lightest tug, he manages to free himself from Soobin’s grasp.

“Soobin,” says Taehyung, calmly. 

Soobin blinks. Like snapping from a spell. He slowly turns away from Beomgyu to stare across the wide expanse of the wooden desk. “Yes, Great Detective?”

“If you would be so kind as to wait here a moment.” There’s an odd look in Taehyung’s eyes. Like a tiny little fire just beginning to grow. Without waiting for a response, Taehyung stands, walks out from behind his desk and crosses the room hurriedly. Like he’s just thought of someplace else he needs to be. As he passes by, he says to Beomgyu, “If you would follow me, cousin. For a discussion.”

“Certainly,” Beomgyu states. He not-so-subtly wipes his tear-damp hand off on the shoulder of Soobin’s dress shirt. “Help yourself to the tissues,” says Beomgyu. He points to the small, simple box that sits on the corner of Taehyung’s desk. Then he turns and leaves the office.

Taehyung specified no location for their meeting so, for several minutes, Beomgyu wanders aimlessly about the house.

The detective is not in the kitchen or the formal dining room. Nor is he in the parlor, even though the recliner in front of the fireplace is one of his favorite places to lounge and think. Neither is he in the small, informal den near the front of the house or in the tiny room just off the back door where Beomgyu practices.

Beomgyu goes upstairs and finds his cousin standing in the hall there, staring up at the one framed painting in the whole house.

“My dear cousin,” Taehyung says, barely glancing his way, “would I recognize it if someone had replaced this beauty with a lookalike?”

“I would hope so,” Beomgyu grunts, glancing over at the large painting on the wall. “It’s yours, is it not?”

It must not be the answer Taehyung is hoping for because he sighs a little and does not say anything for several long seconds.

The air is warmer and thicker upstairs with no open windows to bring in the breeze. Beomgyu fidgets uncomfortably in the slightly humid hall. When he realizes that he must push the conversation forward, Beomgyu asks, “I thought this was one of your favored possessions? For a time, it was all you could talk about in your letters.”

“Correct,” Taehyung answers. “This is the present my mother gifted to me when I bought this house seven or eight years ago.” Taehyung drags a finger across the painting’s frame as if checking for specks of dust. “It hangs right outside my bedroom door and I walk past it countless times each day. I see it all of the time and it is so familiar to me but when was the last time I _ looked _ at it?” He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing the texture of the oil paint on the canvas, the artist’s signature in the corner. 

Perhaps it is because of the way Taehyung says it, how passionately he speaks, but Beomgyu steps forward so that he is shoulder to shoulder with his cousin and  _ looks _ at the painting. With its pretty ship with white, full sails. With its smooth, glassy ocean waves turned pink and yellow beneath a setting sun. With the purplish silhouette of a port city standing in the haze off the horizon. Now that Beomgyu relaxes, now that he lets himself consider what his cousin is actually saying, he’s not all too sure he’s ever  _ looked _ at the painting himself. Even though he’s lived here all summer, even though he’s walked past it every day.

Five minutes ago, if Taehyung had asked him the name of the ship written in gold on her bow, would Beomgyu have been able to answer?

Five minutes ago, if Taehyung had asked him if the ship was facing left or right, would Beomgyu have been correct in his guess?

Taehyung chuckles, almost as if he can read Beomgyu’s line of thought. “Would I notice if someone had taken you and replaced you with a doppleganger?”

To that, Beomgyu takes a bit of offense. He glares up at his cousin and, angry, he says, “I would hope so!”

“Right. Right.” Taehyung nods. “Perhaps family is not as easy to fake as art.” A thought occurs to him. It makes him suck in the tiniest little breath. He turns and looks at his cousin. “Would you notice if someone had swapped out your violin for an identical model?”

Beomgyu realizes something dreadful. He props his hands up on his hips. “You aren’t thinking of taking on his case, are you?” God! Someone must talk sense into him!

Taehyung turns away from Beomgyu to look back up at the painting. The fire in his eyes has grown. “That Soobin fellow… His story intrigues me.”

And if something  _ intrigues _ Taehyung… “It shouldn’t. His claim is quite outrageous. He’s convinced himself he’s superhuman.”

“Not superhuman. Just observant.”

“He can tell the difference between two exact art pieces with his own two eyes? He’s out of his mind.” Beomgyu belatedly remembers that their client is right down the stairs. He lowers his tone so that his voice will not carry. “Cousin, you can’t be serious.”

“Weren’t you the one who insisted we take a case this week?” Taehyung smiles. His lips pull back in that all-too-unique boxy shape. The smile that gets women giggling behind their gloved hands. “Aren’t you the one desperate for a chance to strut about town? Collecting clues, you call it?”

Beomgyu exhales sharply through his nose. He had indeed asked for such a thing.

Taehyung keeps on, “Doesn’t a case of serial art theft sound far more entertaining than a child’s lost dog? A man’s runaway wife? A teacher’s missing supplies? A secret admirer too fearful to do more than leave unsigned letters on a bachelor’s doorstep?” He turns around to head towards the bathroom at the far end of the hall. He has clearly made his decision and will not be swayed. “Tell Soobin we will take his case. Have him meet us here at ten tomorrow morning with the first installment of his payment and then we shall begin.”

Beomgyu says nothing. He does not agree to follow the command. He just stares at Taehyung’s back as the man saunters away. 

Hmmmm. Beomgyu’s eyes go wide. He has a sudden craving for lemon meringue pie, even though it will spoil his appetite for dinner. Then he realizes that he ate the last of that pie yesterday evening! Beomgyu’s mood plummets. Eyebrows narrowed and nose scrunched up, he stomps back down the stairs. They are just about to run entirely out of desserts in this house! If he wants something sweet before the weekend, he will need to buy more. With his own cash, unfortunately. As tightly as Taehyung keeps his wallet closed. Beomgyu impulsively decides to order a cake from the bakery at the end of the block. Or, he wonders, mouth quirking up at the corners with devilish and indulgent greed, should he call for a carriage and take a trip all the way across town to make a visit to the chocolatier? He’s so caught up daydreaming about bars of dark chocolate and decadent truffles and caramel covered nuts and wonderful chocolate-dipped biscuits that he does not realize Soobin is waiting at the bottom of the staircase until  _ after _ he’s stepped off the last stair and walked straight into the lad.

“Oh.” Soobin squeaks out a nervous laugh. One of his hands gently lands on the crown of Beomgyu’s head.

“Goddammit,” Beomgyu snarls. His chocolate dreams melt from between his fingers as he takes too large of a step backwards to put distance between them. His heel collides with the riser of the bottom stair, knocking him off balance, and he would have tumbled backwards if not for Soobin’s large hand dropping from the top of his head and wrapping about his waist, dragging Beomgyu back upright but also snapping them chest to chest.

“Are you alright?” Soobin questions. Then, tentatively, unsure, he adds, “Beomgyu?” And they are standing so close that Beomgyu feels the man’s voice rattle his own chest.

“I am more than fine,” says Beomgyu. “Sir.” He twists free of Soobin’s hold on him and moves past him up the hall. Now that he thinks about it, a trip across town and back this late in the evening won’t have him here at the house until long after dark. The chocolatier is out of the question until first thing in the morning. He’s not in the mood for bread so the only sweet thing left is candy. The candy shop around the corner and across the bridge is within walking distance and their taffy is chewy and cheap! Beomgyu checks his pockets and is relieved to feel his coin purse there. He does not have to go back upstairs.

Soobin’s voice echoes up the hall behind him, “Will the Great Detective help me?”

“He won’t,” Beomgyu easily lies, eager to leave the house and go shopping. “He’s asked me to show such a fine, young gentleman the door. Follow me.”

Soobin bites his bottom lip. His eyes waver and water as frustration visibly builds up in him. He croaks out, “But--”

“The door is this way,” Beomgyu says cheerily. “Would you like a complimentary peppermint?” He plucks a wrapped candy for himself out of the crystal bowl on the tiny table in the hall as he passes it. “No? Alright then. Don’t tell anyone I did not offer.” He unwraps it and pops the mint into his mouth.

Head hung low like a scolded puppy, Soobin follows after him. He even drags his shoes across the hardwood in a very unbefitting way. And even when Beomgyu swings open the front door and jerks his head towards the busy street outside, Soobin stands in the threshold and stares at Beomgyu like there are a million things he wants to say. Or like there’s something about Beomgyu that he can’t look away from. Can’t take his eyes off of.

Beomgyu glances down the hall to make eye contact with you. “Dear reader, is this kid alright? Must he  _ stare _ ? I’m tempted to take a swing at him.” He turns to look back up at Soobin. “Is there a problem?”

Soobin shakes his head. “No. It’s just… I thought that you would help me.”

“We can’t help everyone. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”

Soobin goes back to just staring at him. His gaze darts about quickly, to Beomgyu’s neck, to his ears, to his chin, to his forehead.

For a moment, Beomgyu wonders if he has something on his face. Cookie crumbs, perhaps?

Then, at last, Soobin turns away. “Good day to you.”

“Safe travels,” Beomgyu calls after him as Soobin goes down the stairs. He even has the capacity to raise his arm and give the poor boy a wave.

Soobin looks at him one last time and his face is so forlorn, so distraught and full of emotion--the kinds of emotions that Beomgyu is no good dealing with--that Beomgyu almost feels bad for turning him away. Almost calls him back in to apologize.

Almost.

Beomgyu regains his composure and closes the door on him instead.


	2. If Watson Had A Watson

When Beomgyu plays, it is probably the one time he lets his rigidity fall away.

His fingers move cleanly and dexterously over the strings of his violin, yes, but there is still  _ softness _ and flow and artistry in the way he draws sound out of his instrument. Hours and hours and years and  _ years _ of practice have smoothed his movements and burned the precision into his muscles, baked the confidence into his soul. The noise he makes is light. Free--like morning songbirds--but there is not a note out of place. Not a string out of tune.

He quite enjoys this particular song. The melody so deeply ingrained in him that he does not need sheet music. In fact, he can play it with his eyes closed.

It’s only when he has control over something beautiful like this that his perpetual anger crumbles, leaving peace behind.

Beomgyu allows the rhythm to sway him side to side, back and forth. 

The violin sings beneath his skillful hands and the full sound echoes wonderfully in the small room Taehyung’s offered him.

Beomgyu’s mother always thought he’d gravitate to different composers. Ones who embraced the romance of the strings. Ones who craved smooth and almost glossy sounds. The ones who wrote pieces about the moon, about flowers, about love. Flight. Freedom. 

Rachmaninoff. Mahler. Mendelssohn.

Yet Beomgyu adores Paganini. 

Abrupt starts and stops. 

Manic changes in mood and tone. 

Aggressive, frantic, choppy arpeggios. 

Leaps of faiths through the octaves. 

Percussive pizzicato sandwiched between dramatic, drawn-out segments. 

It requires technical fingerwork that’s difficult to master yet unmatched in tone.

Perhaps he adores Paganini because, even with how smoothly he moves, rigidity remains.

_ Structure _ remains.

He still does not have to completely lower the mask this way.

The caprice he is playing comes to a screeching halt when there is a loud knock on the door.

Beomgyu glances up right as Taehyung, in his off-white sleeping gown, clears his throat. Beomgyu blinks his eyes and takes in the sight of the dimly-lit room around him. He’s not even entirely sure how long he’s been at it.

Taehyung has, of course. He’s been counting the minutes. The hours. “It sounds wonderful,” he states, his tone measured and careful. “But the hour is  _ very _ late, cousin.”

Beomgyu says nothing. He lowers his violin from beneath his chin.

∳

Jimin stops by the next morning, shortly after eight, to let himself in and cook them breakfast as always. Beomgyu comes downstairs, still in his sleep clothes, and takes a seat at the dining table just as the kettle on the stove whistles, hot steam billowing from the spout.

“Morning, sprout,” Jimin calls out over his shoulder as he prepares to steep the tea.

“Morning,” Beomgyu returns, though far less enthusiastically.

There are a lot of people in Taehyung’s life who Beomgyu isn’t always sure of. They exist with little to no story in his head, Taehyung only ever introducing them and not much else. They are mysterious people-shaped smudges in the background of a painting and Beomgyu isn’t entirely sure why they are  _ here _ .

Yoongi is one of them. Jimin is another.

Jimin is no housekeeper, as can be judged from our poorly he cleans up after himself.

He is no chef, based on how he blatantly ignores the spice rack Taehyung has in the pantry.

Yet he offers an hour or two of his time nearly every morning to cook and clean and Beomgyu isn’t even entirely sure if Taehyung pays him for the effort.

Jimin dresses simply. Not poorly but  _ simply _ . Linen shirt. Cotton pants. Everything loose-fitting and untailored. The colors muted. Cheaply dyed. His hair is unstyled and hangs across his forehead in straight, dark bangs. Yet his hands are smooth. Free of the calluses and grime that cling to the fingers of men from the working class. Unlike Yoongi, who is proud to wave around his badge and gun and handcuffs, it’s nigh-impossible to tell just from appearances what Jimin does for a living. Even harder than that to ask.

Not like Beomgyu cares enough to ask.

Jimin, however,  _ does _ care enough to ask. “No music this morning?”

Beomgyu does not look up at him. “No music this morning.”

∳

The cousins sit in the parlor. Taehyung in his favorite recliner. Beomgyu on the velvet loveseat.

Taehyung has the curtains pulled back and warm, mid-morning sunlight pours through the windows at a sharp angle. It gives him the perfect amount of light to rear back in his chair, legs crossed at the knees, and read one of the daily papers. Less tragic news stories and political noise, more scandalizing celebrity gossip and theater production reviews. An odd choice for a man like Taehyung. What made him change things up this morning?

Beomgyu, across from him, snacks on a plate of buttered crackers. The novel he claimed to be reading sits discarded and forgotten about on the cushion next to him. On his lap, covered in crumbs, is a page of sheet music. His own composition. He twirls his pen between his fingers and waits for the next note to come.

The two of them have been sitting in comfortable silence for the past hour but, suddenly, as if the thought has only just now occurred to him, Taehyung lowers the newspaper to his lap. His mouth hangs open with a half-formed notion for several seconds before he states, “Soobin is running quite late, don’t you think?”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Beomgyu eyes the grandfather clock on the far side of the room. It’s ten minutes to eleven. Taehyung is still under the impression that Soobin is to be here at ten. Beomgyu plucks another cracker from the plate and pushes it into his mouth. “Perhaps he’s realized how foolish his request is and has stayed home.”

Taehyung is not convinced. He stares at Beomgyu for a moment before coming to a spot-on conclusion. “Do you have anything to do with his absence?” One doesn’t even need to be the famous Great Detective to make such a deduction. 

Beomgyu coughs into his fist to hide his smile and steals a glance up in your direction, dear reader. He doesn’t risk speaking, he just narrows his eyes at you like it’s all some game he’s barely avoided being caught cheating in. Beomgyu gets a handle on his facial expression and bravely, boldly, meets Taehyung’s gaze. “Don’t I pass along all of your messages?” He does not know why it’s so easy for him to lie and believe in it enough to make his cousin believe it too. “What could I possibly do to keep him away? Soobin has merely changed his mind and put his worries elsewhere, cousin.”

And Taehyung resists it for a moment. He longs to challenge it, like he longs to challenge all questions and problems and gaping holes in logic. Taehyung wants to find a vulnerability in the story, find an opening in Beomgyu’s facade, but Beomgyu just pops another cracker into his mouth and steadily holds his cousin’s gaze. At long last, Taehyung gives it up and lifts the newspaper in front of his face once more.

Beomgyu smiles. It is all about the small victories.

∳

Later that morning, Beomgyu leaves Taehyung’s home to make errands with a moderate amount of spending money in his wallet. He sports a dress shirt, bow tie, suspenders and cream-colored pants. Not as flashy as yesterday’s outfit but the sun is a bit hot today which makes more layers than that an unwise choice for walking.

He reminds himself of all of the places he needs to go: the grocer’s he should save for Sunday so today he’ll just go to the luthier’s, the druggist’s, and if he has the spare change afterwards, the chocolatier’s. 

Beomgyu is in a good mood. The breeze is strong and cool and, when he makes a right at the first corner and a left at the third, the slope of the hill before him is tall and steep. From up here, he can see the roofs of the numerous residences and offices, the bright red paint of the trolleys as they rumble across the rails, the criss-crossing streets, the tops of the trees, and--quite some distance away--the blue-white sparkle of the ocean. It is like a scene from a picture show. Or like some modern artist’s painting with expert, subtle stippling.

He realizes he’s just standing on the sidewalk, in the way, gawking, and he glances up at you as he sidesteps out of the path of the commuters behind him. “You see, I never get such sights back at home.” He jerks his head towards the city spread out on the hill below him, at the blue of the ocean that sits hazy in the distance. “Home is too far from the coast, it is. The estate is surrounded by nothing but wildflower fields and trees and manicured gardens and the stableyard. It’s beautiful but it’s all quite… flat. Empty. Lonely, dare I say. Our nearest neighbor is a fifteen minute walk away. Going into town was an all-day affair reserved for weekends. Sundays, mainly. Making errands was not something I can simply decide to do at whatever hour I choose. Not like I can do here.” He starts walking again, finding his place among the quick-moving crowd of people. Beomgyu keeps his eye on you as he says, “So many buildings standing shoulder to shoulder… Seeing so many people bustling about… Even with a full staff at the house, I’ve never been surrounded by so many people all at once. It feels daunting, even after so many months have passed while I’ve stayed here. Oh… And this. Yes. The hills take some getting used to, walking up and down and up and down the blasted, infernal things. But--”

Beomgyu pauses abruptly. He squints into the distance and shakes his head in disbelief but it’s nearly impossible to mistake the young lad towering head and shoulders above everyone else on the street.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Beomgyu hisses under his breath. It’s Soobin who he sees. Because of course it is! “Damn it all. What if he spots me and comes running? What if he demands my cousin take his case? Worse, what if he  _ cries _ about it? Again.” He shakes his head. “I’m no good with tears.” Not wanting to chance it, Beomgyu ducks to his right and swings open the door of the nearest shop. 

He will just hide out here, he decides. Long enough for Soobin to pass by. Then he’ll continue on his way.

Hold on. He’s not even entirely sure of what kind of shop he’s escaped into. Slowly, Beomgyu’s eyes adjust to the dim light after being outdoors beneath the bright sun for so long. The blurry shapes around the perimeter come into focus and he realizes that he’s not standing in some crowded room, he’s merely surrounded by an unsightly number of well-clothed mannequins and dress forms.

He’s ducked into the tailor’s. Not the worst hiding place. He can pretend to peruse the bow ties.

Soon as he acknowledges this idea, the noise of the door opening behind him makes him snap around. “Bloody hell,” he hisses the instant he recognizes Soobin coming through the door. “How mightily inconvenient.” He glances up at you, entirely distressed. “Something horrific is going to happen once he catches sight of me. I can sense it.” And to evade such an awful outcome, he ducks down an aisle and, hopefully, out of sight.

From behind a mannequin, he watches Soobin walk further into the shop.

Soobin seems to take a moment to assess the place, eyes wandering, breathing rather heavily from his trek up the hill.

There is a moment where Soobin turns his head in Beomgyu’s direction so Beomgyu practically throws himself sideways, nearly knocking over a row of rolls of fabric leaning against a wall, the displays nearly as tall as he is. He plays off his clumsiness by running a hand across the different textiles. He can feel the luxury even with just his fingertips. The rich jewel tones of the silkier fabrics and their extravagant gold inlays are better suited to autumn than summer, but the changing seasons will be upon them fast. Faster than Beomgyu wants to admit. Now that he thinks about it, if he is to keep ahead of the trends as he usually does, he must buy new clothes before the month is out. When Beomgyu decides that Soobin cannot still be looking in his direction, he drifts away from the fabric display, wanders further down the aisle and very quickly spots Soobin as the man walks out from behind a hat rack.

They are closer together than he expects.

Fearful of getting caught, Beomgyu squeezes between two mannequins, nearly trips over a shoe display and then finds a new hiding place behind a clothing rack full of dress shirts.

He expects Soobin to wander the aisles aimlessly but Soobin must be a regular customer here. After putting back the coat that had caught his attention, he cuts straight towards the back of the shop and animatedly starts chatting up one of the workers, someone who knows him by name. She’s a middle-aged woman with graying hair but a straight back and a cool, steely demeanor. Quite possibly the head seamstress. Soobin greets her but Beomgyu is a bit too far away to hear the specifics of their conversation.

“Hi,” a voice cuts close to Beomgyu’s ear.

“Shit,” Beomgyu blurts out. He startles and whirls about.

The lad standing behind him is strikingly handsome and seems to know this fact quite intimately based on how he carries himself. Based on how he uses a flamboyant shake of his head to flick his shoulder-length dark hair out of his face, most of it drawn up into a ponytail. The lad’s vest is unbuttoned. In fact, many of the buttons of his dress shirt are also undone, exposing an improper amount of collarbone. His tie is little more than a decoration draped over his collar, not even done up. The lad’s sleeves are rolled past his elbows and his pants sit oddly high up on his waist. He does not seem to be bothered at all by Beomgyu’s staring. He asks, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Beomgyu is almost appalled by the young lad’s lack of finesse but then a lightbulb goes off in his head as he realizes the disheveled look is  _ purposeful _ . Not so much a breaking of the rules as it is a complete disregard for them. A riot against all style and decorum!

And only a man as self-assured as this can pull it off without looking frumpy and foolish. Beomgyu almost feels compelled to compliment him.

Almost.

Soobin’s laughter carries across the shop and Beomgyu hastily spins back around to make sure he hasn’t been spotted.

The purposefully disheveled lad leans back towards Beomgyu’s ear. “Studying our wares, are we? Checking for the highest quality?”

Rolling his eyes, Beomgyu hisses, “Who are you?”

“Yeonjun,” the lad introduces himself. “The so-called son in the  _ Choi And Son _ shop name. And you are?”

“Beomgyu.” It’s all our feisty hero offers. 

Yeonjun follows Beomgyu’s intense stare and spots Soobin at the rear of the shop, being handed a large white parcel. Yeonjun leans even closer to Beomgyu and says, “Interested in something other than our suits?”

Belatedly, Beomgyu realizes how suspicious he must look peering over the top of a clothing rack, staring hard at Soobin’s broad back. He turns to look at Yeonjun and scrambles to come up with an answer.

Yeonjun comes up with an answer for him. “I’m afraid he’s not for sale. And would be out of your price range even if he was.”

Beomgyu exhales through his nose. “You most certainly have the wrong idea. I don’t fancy him at all. I am trying to  _ avoid _ him, not get close to him.”

“You’re doing an awful job of that.”

“Oh, hush,” Beomgyu snaps. Really, he should just ignore this distracting fellow. He has his own problems to tend to. With Soobin preoccupied with the head seamstress, he can just bolt towards the door before he’s spotted! He attempts to do just that but Yeonjun grabs him by the wrist and holds him still before he can dash down the aisle.

“Why the hurry,” Yeonjun asks, playing innocent.

“I have a long list of places I’d rather be,” explains Beomgyu.

“And one of those places isn’t the circle of Soobin’s arms?”

‘You know him,’ Beomgyu almost asks. Instead, he wrenches his wrist free of Yeonjun’s grasp. “Oh sod off, you wanker.”

Yeonjun grins from ear to ear like an evil cat.

Then, “Excuse me.”

Yeonjun and Beomgyu both look up to see Soobin standing off to the side.

Beomgyu clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.

Yeonjun just grins. As if this is all part of his plan.

“May I get by you,” Soobin requests. He motions to the far end of the aisle.

“Certainly.” Yeonjun steps back to allow room for him to pass. He even flourishes an arm.

Soobin takes one step forward, then he does a noticeable double take and peers over at the disheveled lad once more. His face lights up with recognition. “Oh. Yeonjun! Good morning.” His dimpled smile could rival the brightness of the sun. Beomgyu squints against its light.

“It’s afternoon now,” Yeonjun smoothly corrects. “Has been for quite some time. We really should catch up later. It’s been too long.”

“Yes. We must. Over tea.”

“And scones!”

“Yes. Certainly.” 

Yeonjun folds a lock of hair behind his ear. “Mum had a new tea blend imported from overseas. It’s a bit floral and light. I think you’d like it. I will leave some aside so that we can enjoy it together.”

“I would appreciate that.” Soobin states. Then, finally, he starts stepping forward again with his parcel in hand, ready to leave. He passes between Yeonjun and Beomgyu as if that is all there is to it.

Beomgyu clears his throat.

Soobin glances over in Beomgyu’s direction, looks him straight in the face and… nothing. Not even a smile in greeting. Not even a nod of acknowledgement. Soobin turns away and continues up the aisle as if the two do not know each other.

Beomgyu’s jaw drops open. He tilts his head in your direction before he huffs, “Did he just  _ ignore _ me?” And some small piece of deeply-embedded emotional maturity informs him that he  _ deserves _ such cold-shouldered treatment after how he’s treated Soobin but Beomgyu just can’t set aside how much it hurts to have his pride so blatantly smirched. When Beomgyu turns back to Yeonjun, the scruffy lad is smirking at him knowingly, as if he is privy to some inside joke that Beomgyu will never learn of. That just irritates Beomgyu all the more. He’s no longer sure he likes this guy. With a roll of his eyes, he turns and hurries after Soobin.

“Oh, look at you scurry,” Yeonjun calls after him, sounding every bit the cocky bastard he most certainly is. “I thought you said you weren’t interested?”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Beomgyu insists. He refuses to even look over his shoulder at the guy.

“You are moving quite fast for someone who is not interested.”

“I’m  _ not _ interested!” Beomgyu watches Soobin shoulder the door open and step out into the sunlight. Beomgyu should just let this go. Their paths aren’t meant to cross. If he pursues Soobin out of the shop door, something awful will happen. He just knows it! But curiosity is such a vehement little menace and if Beomgyu were a cat it would have killed him. He ignores Yeonjun’s jokes at his expense and rushes out of the door.

The bright sting of sunlight momentarily disorients him but he only has to look up the sidewalk in either direction for a few short seconds before he spots Soobin’s tall frame to the right, moving down the hill in the direction Beomgyu had seen him come from ten minutes prior.

Beomgyu goes after him. Almost at a sprint. He pushes through the crowd, slips past Soobin, plants himself in Soobin’s path and waits with his hands on his hips, breathing hard.

It takes Soobin a few steps, but he notices Beomgyu. He pauses within arm’s reach. Then he shifts to the side as if to walk around him.

Unacceptable!

Beomgyu side steps, puts himself in Soobin’s way a second time.

The action startles Soobin a bit. Makes him take a step backward. Makes him clutch his parcel a bit more protectively.

“Soobin,” Beomgyu grunts out. “You’re not going to greet me?” He won’t stand for being so blatantly cast aside!

Soobin nervously chuckles, as if sensing Beomgyu’s mounting hostility. “You know me?” Then, in a softer voice, “I… I know you?” His eyes go wide. His nervousness visibly melts into panic. His posture goes rigid. 

Now it is Beomgyu’s turn to falter. Did he say something wrong?

Soobin looks Beomgyu up and down, up and down, mouth half-open. Then… It clicks. “Wait. Beomgyu? Is that you?”

Didn’t they meet just yesterday? “Why do you sound so unsure when you’re looking right at me?”

Soobin relaxes. A little. “Apologies.” He puts a hand to his chest and dips his head. “I have a bit of developmental prosopagnosia.”

Beomgyu isn’t sure he’s heard of that. He can’t think to do anything but stare. Seconds pass.

Soobin clarifies, “A bit of face-blindness, you see.” Another long pause. “I can’t always recognize people. Even the ones who I know.”

Beomgyu tilts his head in confusion. “Then how did you recognize me just now?”

Soobin relaxes a little bit more. Enough for his smile to part his lips like the clouds part for the sun. Beomgyu squints to avoid blindness. Soobin says, “I’m quite observant. I have to be, all things considered. People are familiar to me in other ways. I don’t always need to look at their faces.” He looks Beomgyu up and down again. Far more slowly. “I noticed your hair style, for one. The curls… And your freckles. You have many of them. Even on your neck.” He leans forward. Quite close to Beomgyu’s face. Beomgyu almost gets lost in the scent of his perfume. Soobin asks, “You play the violin, do you not?”

Beomgyu startles. He takes a half step back. “How in blazes do you know that?”

“Hold this,” Soobin instructs. Without waiting for a response, he presses the parcel in his hand to Beomgyu’s chest, forcing Beomgyu to grab hold of it by wrapping his right arm around it. Soobin says, “I noticed it yesterday. When you touched me. The calluses on your fingers, I mean.” He reaches forward, wraps his fingers about Beomgyu’s wrist and lifts Beomgyu’s left hand up and up and up as if to get a better look at it in the sunlight. “I can see the grooves the strings left on your fingertips.” He rubs his thumb across Beomgyu’s rough palm, then uses his index finger to drag slow circles across the pads of Beomgyu’s fingertips.

It’s a shockingly gentle, intimate touch but it does nothing to prepare Beomgyu for what happens next.

“And here,” Soobin says. He reaches up with his left hand, presses his fingers to Beomgyu’s neck and rolls his thumb back and forth along the skin of Beomgyu’s throat. “You have skin discoloration right where a violin’s chin rest would sit.”

They stand there for a moment. Beomgyu swallows hard and feels the heat of Soobin’s hand on his neck. For a reason he can’t fathom, his heart hammers in his chest. Faster and faster as if he’s been running. He breathes in and then breathes out and, for a moment, wonders if Soobin can feel his thrashing pulse gush through the artery in his neck. It’s right beneath Soobin’s thumb, is it not? Beomgyu flexes his hand and feels the softness of Soobin’s fingers wrapped tight about his own. Soobin’s hands are so warm. Beomgyu avoids the depths of Soobin’s eyes by glancing away. “I do play violin,” he admits. “Quite well, may I add.”

“See,” Soobin says with a dimpled smile. “I am observant.”

And it dawns on Beomgyu that Soobin may have been telling the truth yesterday when he claimed to be able to notice when his family’s authentic art pieces had been replaced by imitations. But he’s already told the man no. Actually, he is a bit surprised that Soobin hasn’t stopped right now and demanded Beomgyu rethink turning down the case.

The scent of Soobin’s perfume hits Beomgyu a second time. Warm. Sweet. Like caramelized sugar and honey. Not quite a summer scent but it matches Soobin so well that Beomgyu can ignore the out-of-season headiness of it.

Too soon, yet not soon enough at the same time, Soobin peels away from him, taking his warmth and sunshine smile and sweet scent with him. Soobin pulls his parcel out from beneath Beomgyu’s arm and steps back like this is all there is. Like this is all there will be. “It was nice seeing you again, Beomgyu, but I really must be going now.” And just like that, their conversation is over.

Soobin resumes his walk down the hill, leaving Beomgyu utterly speechless behind him. 


	3. Scandal & Spectrum

Beomgyu gets such a late start on his errands (as he’s so irrationally fearful of running into Soobin again) that he doesn’t make it out to the chocolatier’s until the sky is tinted pink-orange with sunset.

He had intended to use some of the remaining daylight hours to stroll through the park. Now it seems he’ll have to go straight back home once he’s done. Oh well. 

On the bright side, it seems to be the perfect time to arrive at the place. It’s close enough to closing time that he is the only customer in the building and, instead of pestering him with passive-aggressive questions or assailing him with selling techniques, the workers mind their own business and straighten things up and get everything clean and ready for tomorrow. The noise they keep up is rather abhorrent, actually. Banging pots and pans. The low and incessant hum of machinery. Shouts of instructions. Scraping and banging as someone cleans out the wood-burning stove. The constant squeaking of shoes on a slightly damp floor. Despite their hustle and bustle, like bees around a hive, Beomgyu takes his time. He leans over every glass display case and stares in wonder at all of the pretty, decorated candies lined up like treasures. He gapes at the chocolates wrapped in gold foil and gasps at the rows and rows of cherry cordials. He puts his face to the glass to admire the rectangular biscuits drizzled in caramel.

It’s a smorgasbord. And if anyone knows Beomgyu for any considerable length of time, dear reader, they will know that chocolate is his one and only true weakness.

It’s a beautiful place, he marvels. With a name he’s not sure he will pronounce correctly if he makes an attempt. The architecture is a bit gaudy, even for his tastes, but the interior design does exactly what it intends by setting up a  _ mood _ . 

The business is located on a beautiful street lined with flower beds full of yellow blooms and young, pruned trees stretching shadows across the sidewalk. Twilight-colored sunlight pours into the shop through the leaded windows at just the right angle so that the crystals of the chandelier catch and refract the rays, sparking rainbows and light streaks across the tile floor and walls.

Being ignored by the workers five minutes ago was a blessing. Now it is a curse. Not a single one of the dozen or so figures gives him so much as a sideways glance as they hustle about. They may indeed be  _ too good _ at minding their own business, he thinks. If they acknowledge him at all, it is with mild annoyance as they step around him in an attempt to complete their tasks. The workers seem too busy to answer his questions about the price of a box of assorted treats and they make him waste about ten minutes of his time as he’s told to “ask him” and then to “ask her” and  _ then _ to “ask them” as they all hand off responsibility to someone else, each slightly more rude than the last.

One young lad  _ does _ look at him a tad apologetically. He’s a new face Beomgyu hasn’t seen behind the counter before with a lengthy name on his tag that Beomgyu can never catch a clear glimpse of. The lad even sets a box he’s carrying down on a table, dips his head and asks Beomgyu to forgive everyone’s rudeness. He’s tall. Baby-faced. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair parted down the middle with a cute curl across the bangs. He has a long, sharp nose like that of a fashion model. He almost looks too young to be in a place like this but there is no clumsiness to his movements. In fact, he moves faster and more precisely than most of the others. But he, too, does not spare more than a moment to tend to Beomgyu’s needs. Already, he is rushing away.

Too tired from his long day to even start a fuss about the disrespect (Is he alright? Is he sick?), Beomgyu exits the building before someone orders him to do so and then hails a carriage to start his long trek back home.

∳

At the breakfast table the next morning, Beomgyu doesn’t recognize his own face.

He blames the fact that he’s still sleepy.

He blames the fact that he hasn’t seen a picture of himself since he left home at the start of summer.

He blames the fact that the only thing on his mind is the musical composition he’s been working on and how he’s finally got the note sequence to bring it all to a dramatic close.

You see, he’s been photographed and the grainy black and white image sits at the top of a column in the society pages of the cheaply-printed celebrity gossip rag that Taehyung is reading. “My, what a handsome fellow,” he mumbles to you as he chews on a forkful of scrambled eggs. He tilts his head a little in order to get a better look at the photo in the paper. “And what an arrestingly charming smile. The lad must be absolutely delighted.” Beomgyu looks down, back up at the photograph, returns his attention to his breakfast, and then looks up at the photograph again. “Wait. That’s me!” His brain scrambles to tie all of the loose ends together. He screeches aloud, “What kind of bloody headline is that!”

Taehyung’s response is frustratingly lukewarm. “Hmm? What are you on about so early in the morning?” He lowers the paper to meet Beomgyu’s eyes over the top of it.

Clearly, he hasn’t flipped the newspaper over to the back to witness such a thing and, for a moment, Beomgyu isn’t sure he wants his cousin to see. But damn it all! Beomgyu stands up so hastily that he nearly tips his chair over and leans across the dining table to point. In bold, serif font above his photograph reads the following:

SOUGHT-AFTER BACHELOR CHOI SOOBIN CAUGHT SMOOCHING NEWEST BEAU! 

“For fuck’s sake,” Beomgyu yells.

“Mind that tongue of yours, cousin,” Taehyung says calmly. “Or I will get the soap.” He flips the newspaper over and scans the page until he spots what Beomgyu is so upset about. For some odd reason, he is not equally as enraged. “When did you and our client have the time to get so close?”

“He’s not our client!” Beomgyu snaps. Then he corrects himself. “I mean, he chose not to be our client.”

Taehyung raises a suspicious eyebrow at him.

Beomgyu backpedals, “And we aren’t close!” He points at the headline more aggressively. “This is libel. They’ve made up an entire story.” He snatches the newspaper out of Taehyung’s hands to get a better look at the photograph. It is from yesterday, he notices. Some eagle-eyed reporter has managed to snap a candid photo of Beomgyu and Soobin chatting while standing on the sidewalk outside of Choi And Son, the tailor’s. Soobin never kissed him, never made a move to do so, didn’t seem like the type to make such a move, but considering the dastardly angle the photographer took this shot from and the way the image is zoomed and cropped, it appears like the two of them are obscenely engrossed in each other with Soobin’s mouth on Beomgyu’s cheek, Beomgyu grinning in response. Soobin’s giant-size hand is around Beomgyu’s throat as if to hold him close, not to point out the mark Beomgyu’s violin left on his neck. Beomgyu is leaning back to put distance between their faces but the angle makes it appear as if he’s swooning, knees weak. 

Taehyung peels the newspaper out of Beomgyu’s hand and stares at the article with a rather expressionless face.

The whole situation irritates Beomgyu.

To irritate him further, Taehyung commands, “Bring him here.”

“What are you talking about,” Beomgyu asks.

Taehyung lowers the newspaper to the dining room table and fixes him with a cold, hard stare. He’s put two and two together and there is no longer any escaping his deductions. “You did or said something to scare him off the other day,” he correctly assumes. “And to make amends for your mistake, you will take point on his case. I have already decided.” Then he repeats his request. “Find him and bring him to my office.”

Beomgyu looks up at you, dear reader. “I will do no such thing. There’s nothing he can say that will make me do it.”

There’s no way Taehyung hears such words but he knows his cousin well enough to understand the young lad’s thought process. He goes, “Bring him here before sundown tonight or I will send you back home, cousin.”

And the threat is laid out so casually that Beomgyu nearly doesn’t recognize it for what it is. His eyes go wide as it clicks in his head, as he stares across the table at his cousin. “What? You can’t just  _ send me home _ !”

“I can,” Taehyung says, his low voice in stark contrast to Beomgyu’s screeching. “I allowed my aunt to send you here. I can request she take you back.”

“That’s so mean-spirited,” says Beomgyu. Because coming here to the grimy city and working a dirty job was his mother’s idea of a punishment. But he’s actually had fun here. He’s tasted freedom and joy here. Being sent back home is the  _ real _ disciplinary action. And Taehyung knows that! Beomgyu whines, “You can’t do this to me. It’s unfair!”

“And isn’t it unfair that you meddled with my job? Booted out a client? Directly disobeyed me? Isn’t it unfair that you lied to my face?” Taehyung keeps his face stoic, showing no weakness or softness that Beomgyu can exploit. He continues, “I just have to write a quick letter to my aunt and she’ll help me make the arrangements to get you back to the countryside. I’m sure she can reimburse me the price of a train ticket.”

He’s serious about all of this. He doesn’t have to raise his voice or speak particularly sternly or even narrow his eyes. Beomgyu knows this because Taehyung only makes that face when he’s neck-deep in a case, hog-tying clues together and picking out the culprit. And Beomgyu hates that his cousin is treating him no different from a suspect in a case. But the idea of going home does not appeal to him. Not that there’s anything particularly awful back at the estate but now that he’s grown, now that he’s his own man, Beomgyu does not want to stay at home with his parents. Being back in that large house with only the maids to keep him company is a sobering, bitter thought. He does not want to travel back across the country. Not when he’s supposed to be here in the city until the winter. Beomgyu caves in. He will find Soobin. But there’s a minor issue. With a sigh, he asks, “How am I going to locate him by sundown? I know nothing about him.”

Taehyung lifts his fork and knife and resumes his meal. “You’re his beau,” he states, grinning. An obvious joke. “I’m sure you’ll find a method.”

∳

Beomgyu only takes a half hour to bathe and get dressed as he considers all of this a bit of a time-sensitive emergency. He considers himself ‘in a rush.’ 

He smooths sweet-smelling lotion over his body and spritzes his pulse points with a subtle yet crisp perfume. He opts for a cream-colored dress shirt, an emerald green vest and dark brown slacks. A rather moody and earthy color palette for summer, when fashion skews towards brighter and lighter hues, but the green matches one of his umbrellas and it is forecasted to rain today. As frivolous as he is, Beomgyu at least knows when to give nature the right-of-way. He slips on his comfortable walking shoes, lets Taehyung know he’s leaving the house and then steps outside.

The wind hasn’t picked up too much speed yet but there’s a sharp chilliness to the breeze that doesn’t match the heat of the day. Beomgyu peeps between buildings to the ocean and, even from this distance, he can make out the dark gray of storm clouds on the horizon. Even the ocean looks desaturated as the incoming storm churns the waves.

He will have to make this quick or he’ll ruin his good shoes.

Using his umbrella as a makeshift cane, he strolls down the busy sidewalk, head held high, spine straight. He pauses his cheerful humming to directly address you, dear reader. “I think I hate myself. I  _ knew  _ that following Soobin out of the tailor’s the other day would bring me misfortune. It’s done exactly that so I do not know why I am still surprised.” He sighs and gives his umbrella a weak twirl. “If only I hadn’t followed after him… If only we hadn’t been photographed together, I wouldn’t be in this mess. This is what happens when you don’t yield to your intuition.” He gives you one last forlorn look before he focuses his attention back on the packed streets in front of him, slowly working himself back up into a good mood.

It’s Friday. That means the sidewalks are a touch more crowded as the work week draws to a close. Trying not to look too lost, he turns his head in the direction of every large crowd of people he passes, hoping to catch sight of Soobin’s towering frame. It should be easy but it does not go well. 

Shockingly, Soobin is not the only tall, handsome lad in the city. Several times, Beomgyu rushes after someone who almost fits the bill only to discover that he’s run up on someone who is not his target.

It’s tiring work wandering aimlessly like this and an hour slips past as he trudges from one end of the district to the other, searching. 

Even when Beomgyu and his cousin are out searching for clues or witnesses or attempting to crack alibis, Taehyung always has enough of a mind to provide a concrete destination for them. A shop or office or home or inn. Or, at the very least, the name of a person or a hint of an address. Something they can piece together and use. And although Beomgyu has a name--Choi Soobin--he has never looked for anyone or anything without Taehyung standing next to him doing all of the hard thinking.

In other words, he’s up shit’s creek without a paddle.

Would someone at the newspapers have any leads? They knew where Soobin was the other day. That’s how they got the photo! Beomgyu tries to remember the name of the paper he read that morning, tries to recall which printer’s press they’d use. He comes up short. 

Soobin mentioned he was an artist. If he holds any respect in the occupation, perhaps someone at a gallery or salon has heard of the lad?

A solid plan but Beomgyu is too unfamiliar with the city streets, too separated from the city’s social circles, to know where to go to pick up the trail of Soobin’s reputation.

“I probably only have another hour before the storm hits,” he tells you, sighing heavily. Above him, the sky has grayed significantly. The wind has picked up and it carries the scent of rain and saltwater from off the ocean. “How on earth am I going to find one man in a city this large before sundown?” Beomgyu bites his bottom lip in frustration. “He must be  _ someone _ , though. Soobin must be important or famous in some capacity, otherwise the papers would have no reason to run his name and photograph in their gossip column. Damn. Perhaps I should have read more than the headline!” 

A half hour of fruitless wandering later, he’s circled the city’s major neighborhoods and has made it back to his own. Beomgyu finds himself pushing open the door of Choi And Son to catch his breath before the last leg of the journey home. It smells oddly nice inside. Like the starch they spray on the suits to keep the creases sharp. Beomgyu wanders up one aisle and down another, taking in the sight of the display cases full of cufflinks and handkerchiefs and tie clips. As with most young people who start a task and then are not immediately successful at it, Beomgyu has given up on his search for Soobin entirely. He will dally in the tailor’s for a moment or two to rest his sore legs, then he will go back to Taehyung’s, fully prepared to be sent back home. Hell, he’ll start packing tonight!

“My, my,” says a honey smooth voice from deeper into the store. “A nice silhouette you cut there, with the puffed shoulders and wide sleeves.”

Beomgyu swivels his head towards the owner of the voice. “It’s a slightly over-large shirt,” he admits. “I have lost a bit of weight since I arrived in town.”

“You think the shirt is too large, Beomgyu, but it still  _ fits _ .” A young lass approaches him. Her shoulder-length hair is set in gentle ringlets around her sharply-featured face. The floor-length dress she wears is lush and layered, made from embroidered fabrics of white and sky blue, the ensemble cinched tight around her torso by a corset. “Good afternoon to you.”

“How do you do, milady,” Beomgyu answers with a dip of his head. If he were wearing a hat, he would have tipped it to her. She’s quite a beauty. Especially with a smile like that.

“Come,” she says. “Let’s chat.” She leads Beomgyu towards one of the shop windows and she looks out of it to check on the progress of the storm.

It takes a moment, perhaps too long, for Beomgyu to realize that the lass knows him by name. Somehow. As if they’ve met already.

Before he can ask about it, she turns around to face Beomgyu. “I’ve noticed that you keep a close eye on the fashion trends.”

Beomgyu nods stiffly. They’ve only known each other for moments and this is perhaps not his best outfit but he says, “I suppose I keep up with them.”

She looks him up and down and then smirks in a way that’s so utterly familiar that Beomgyu is positive he’s seen her somewhere before. Her eyes go wide as she picks up on the fact that Beomgyu recognizes her, but instead of offering her name, she just smiles wider. “One must do more than simply keep up.” 

“How do you figure,” asks Beomgyu.

She lectures, “Trends are one thing.  _ Style _ is another. Fashion is meant to be experimented with. It’s the one artform where there should be no rules yet mankind has applied rules to it. Forget what you know about fashion. Forget what you’ve been told doesn’t work. Even mistakes can become stylish if worn confidently enough.” She smiles brightly as she circles around Beomgyu, long-fingered hands gently tugging on his shirt sleeves and collar as if to make minute adjustments. “And I’m certain you have the confidence to do something other than abide by trends. In fact, you can  _ set _ them if you wish.” She leans close to his face. Almost impolitely so. “I can help you.”

“How much will that cost, milady,” Beomgyu questions. 

The employee--well, he can only assume she’s an employee--giggles at him. “Why, I’d only point you to clothing I think suits you. You’d still have to buy them yourself. And, more importantly, you’d have to bring your own unmitigated gall.” The way she presses her thumb and index finger to his shoulders and arms makes Beomgyu think she’s calculating his measurements, but he cannot be too sure how she’s able to do so accurately without a tape measure and notepad. 

He’s about to ask her, he’s about to let himself get swept up into the moment, before he recalls that he brought no money to go shopping with him and that he only left the house to locate Soobin. He smiles apologetically and begins, “Actually--”

The shop’s door opens noisily. 

Both Beomgyu and the lass turn their heads at the sound.

Choi Soobin walks in.

It is a curse. It is a miracle.

It’s exactly what Beomgyu needs. It is exactly what Beomgyu doesn’t need.

The lass dips into an exaggerated curtsy, clasping the folds of her dress in a fist. “Soobin, it is a pleasure. Welcome to Choi and Son.”

“You come here quite often, don’t you,” Beomgyu spits out.

It is his attempt to be mean but the lass giggles as if it is a joke. “He’s one of our regulars.”

Beomgyu swallows down his nervousness as Soobin steps briskly towards them. Today, Soobin wears green. Not green like emeralds. Green like mint. Soft and almost-blue against his flushed skin. Beomgyu doesn’t realize he’s staring until the lass waves a hand in front of his face.

Soobin brings with him the scent of his familiar, heady perfume. He grins wide, rakes his eyes up and down Beomgyu’s form. “Good afternoon, Beomgyu,” he says, only hesitating for a moment before speaking the name.

Beomgyu is pleasantly surprised. He does not know why it feels so good to be recognized. “Hello, Soobin. We keep running into each other.”

“We do,” Soobin agrees. Then he turns his eyes on the beautiful lass. He dips his head towards her in greeting. “How are you today, Yeonjun?”

“Fine as ever,” the lass says. “And yourself?”

“A bit frazzled but I have had worse days.”

Beomgyu pipes up, “Hold on. Wait a doggone moment! Hold on.”

The lass loudly, boldly, schreechily laughs. Seemingly at Beomgyu’s expense.

Now that Beomgyu looks at her more closely, she’s utterly familiar to him because she is indeed Yeonjun from yesterday in a brilliant, pale dress. The same striking face, only dolled up in makeup, with styled hair and painted nails. Beomgyu lowers his voice so he isn’t shouting near the top of his lungs. “How deceptive.”

“Not deceptive,” Yeonjun corrects. “Expressive. I’m not attempting to fool anyone.”

Beomgyu meets Yeonjun’s twinkling, sparkling eyes and asks, “Are you a lass or a lad?”

“Do I really have to choose?” Then, after thinking about it a moment, she says “It depends on my outfit, I suppose.” Yeonjun spins in place, causing her dress to flow and twirl about her waist and legs. “I feel like a woman today. Address me as such.”

Beomgyu takes a moment to accept the information. “Will do, milady.” Then he looks up at Soobin. “How did you recognize her before I did? I thought you had--”

Soobin cuts him off. “Remember? I don’t always recognize others by their faces.” He gestures to Yeonjun. “Yeonjun can dress however they like but we’ve known each other awhile. It’s like I’ve engraved their presence into my mind. Height and build and posture. Their voice. Their mannerisms. I may not be able to point Yeonjun out in a crowd but I can recognize other things. Things most other people stop paying attention to once they’ve come to know someone.” 

The first rumble of thunder shakes the windows as the wind howls outside like a starving wolf. The noise reminds Beomgyu of the approaching storm and of his mission to get Soobin to Taehyung’s office before sundown. Before his cousin packs him in a box and tosses him on the first train moving. But first, he should clear the air a bit. “I’m sorry, Soobin,” he says. And it’s been so long since he’s last apologized to anyone that the phrase feels absolutely foreign on his tongue. Like he  _ knows _ he’s just mispronounced a word in a different language and embarrassed himself.

Soobin looks at him. His expression clouds over the slightest bit. “You’re sorry? For what?”

“For getting you involved in some untrue dating scandal with me.” And Beomgyu would be upset about it too, if something like that had happened to him. If he’d been mistakenly paired with some stranger. “I’m sorry for damaging your reputation.”

At that, Soobin visibly relaxes. He smiles so brightly that Beomgyu squints and turns his head away from the shine. Soobin goes, “That was  _ you _ ?” Then he puts a hand to his chest in relief. “Oh thank goodness.”

“Hmm? What?” That is the exact opposite reaction Beomgyu expects. “You’re not upset? How can you not be?”

Soobin steps forward and clamps a hand down on Beomgyu’s shoulder. “I’m so pleased that it’s you, Beomgyu. I’m so glad that it turned out to be someone I know.”

“Unlike the last time,” Yeonjun pipes up with a snarky giggle.

At that, Soobin cuts his eyes to the side to send Yeonjun a glare. When he turns back to Beomgyu, he’s grinning. “My family was quite animated about it all morning.” His hand slides down Beomgyu’s arm, over his elbow, before clamping tight around Beomgyu’s wrist. His skin is warm and soft. Soobin continues, “The high angle in that newspaper photograph made it impossible for me to recognize you. And not to be rude but no one at the house knew who you were. There was no name listed in the article, you see, no clues to your identity, so my parents became a bit obsessed trying to figure out who had been photographed with me. They even made a few phone calls. Caused a stir.” Soobin takes a breath. “At least you’re someone I know.”

Beomgyu panics. Mildly. “But--”

Soobin interrupts, “I am glad it’s you. Truly.” 

Beomgyu tries one more time. “But now people think we’re dating.”

Soobin waves such concerns away. “I wouldn’t mind dating you.”

Yeonjun speaks up. “This happens more often than you think. A year or so ago, the reporters thought Soobin and I were a thing.”

“We could have been,” Soobin states.

“Possibly.” Yeonjun motions to Beomgyu. “Now you’ve moved on to another.”

They are both so casual about this! They’ve accepted it so easily and with so little fuss that Beomgyu actually feels properly upset that he got so worked up over it. Beomgyu feels his face flush. Feels his pulse race. Soobin’s hand is still wrapped about his wrist and it takes all of Beomgyu’s self-control not to impolitely wrench his hand out of the man’s grip in embarrassment. “Are you truly not bothered by such gossip?”

“It’s quite alright,” Soobin tells him. “It brings me no shame.”

“He’s developed quite a thick skin,” says Yeonjun.

“But being used to it isn’t the same as being alright with it,” Beomgyu states.

Soobin looks him in the eye. “Everything is fine.”

Yeonjun turns away and struts down the aisle as if to resume some kind of work. “One can’t stand in the limelight without becoming a target. It simply can’t be done.”

“Still,” Beomgyu comments, “I’d have felt more comfortable if the papers thought we’d gotten into a fist fight.”

Soobin scrunches up his face in displeasure. “Why? That’s so  _ odd _ .”

But now that Beomgyu’s been directly asked, he can’t come up with a satisfactory response. Why  _ would _ he be more comfortable with such a violent alternative to the story? Is it… because he’s never dated anyone? Another sharp rumble of thunder resounds outdoors. The windows rattle as the wind picks up speed. The first few droplets of rain splatter across the glass. Not one to beat around the bush, he just outright says, “Taehyung will take your case.”

Soobin catches on slowly. Slow enough for Beomgyu to watch in real-time as the realization sinks in. “The Great Detective?” Soobin grins. It is a sight to see. “That’s fantastic. I knew you would help me.”

“He will help you,” Beomgyu corrects. “I merely assist.”

“And isn’t that great,” Soobin asks.

Beomgyu inhales through his nose and then lets it out through his mouth. They’ll waste precious time if he stands here and humbly deflects Soobin’s endless supply of enthusiastic compliments. “Taehyung actually sent me out into town to find you so I’m really glad we ran into each other. We have much to discuss. Including your payment. Do you have time to drop by the office today?” A loud grumble of approaching thunder momentarily startles him. “Preferably right now before the storm hits?”

Soobin’s smile falters. “Actually, I have some important matters to attend to this afternoon.” Beomgyu must wear his disappointment clearly on his face because Soobin sighs and goes, “But if you’ll permit me to use your landline, I can make some calls and rearrange a few things on my schedule.”


End file.
